pair of shoes? It could be zero pairs of shoes. Having a squabble with your partner? At least you have a partner. When someone says to me, “Well, at least it couldn’t be any worse,” my rejoinder is usually swift and firm: “Don’t say that! Things can always get worse!” (And, frankly, at some point in the future, they very likely will be.)
I don’t recall what actually brought me in to the LA Free Clinic that day. But I do remember what I came away with: The knowledge that, no matter how bad things are, they could always be worse — so, try to be grateful that they aren’t. And the price for that nugget of wisdom was, fittingly, free.
Life Lesson:
Things could always be worse.
“Exotic Dancers.” What an odd euphemism. Had someone misspelled the word, inadvertently swapping an “r” with an “x”? Didn’t matter. The pink-and-turquoise neon sign hypnotically flashing outside the red velvet curtain beckoned me. I was barely twenty-one when I anxiously stepped foot into this surreal environment. I clumsily made my way to a red leatherette booth that was as far from the stage as I could possibly find. The music was thumping and there were scantily clad girls chatting and laughing and milling about everywhere. It was absolutely terrifying — and terribly exciting. I gazed forward, praying to be seen and yet not seen. Trying to appear as cool and calm as a secret agent in a foreign land. Within moments, I felt a warm body sit beside me. I could barely summon the courage to see who it was.
She was an older woman. You know, like twenty-six or something. And very pretty. Okay, now what was I supposed to do? “So…what’s your name?” I awkwardly asked, not having any clue where to look or not look. “Vixen,” she replied with a wink and a smile. “Oh. Umm…is that your real name?” I stupidly inquired. (James Bond I clearly was not.) “Of course not, silly! It’s Karen.”
I was instantly intrigued. And no, not only for the obvious reasons. I found everything about her fascinating. “What was it like, the first time you went on stage?” She tilted her head. “Well, that was years ago. But I remember feeling nervous and embarrassed. I really wanted everyone’s approval, but I was afraid of being rejected — Ya know, not being good enough. And lots of shame and guilt…I kept thinking about what if my family could see me.” “And then what?” I quickly queried. (Remember, when I’m anxious, I ask lots of questions.) “Well,” she began, “the moment I heard all of that cheering and clapping, and saw the dollar bills raining down on me, I felt great!” “And what about since then?” I wanted to know. “Well, I’ve been doing this for a long time. I guess by now I’m pretty much used to it. It’s my job. Yeah, it can get weird — what I do for a living, the long hours I spend in this place, all the alcohol and drugs in the dressing room, the parade of faceless strangers, staring at me from the darkness. This is my life.”
I was now completely immersed in her story. I needed to know how she copes with all of it: “What about now? How do you survive?” She shrugged, paused a moment, and replied simply: “Three minutes at a time.” And, as if on cue, her song began. Karen gave me a pat on the leg, and Vixen made her way to the stage.
So that was how she did it. I got it. It’s just too overwhelming, trying to take on everything all at once. Break it into smaller chunks and try to live more in the present. “Three minutes at a time.” Kinda like the X-rated version of Alcoholics Anonymous. (But with happier customers and better tips.)
Life Lesson:
Living in the moment makes life manageable.
It was utterly surrealistic. In a heartbeat, the once-proud Alfa Romeo roadster had been reduced to a smoldering heap of mangled metal. Did this really just happen? One moment, gliding and slithering around bends. How could this be? The next moment, slamming into a concrete embankment, spinning out, and wheezing its last breath. When was I going to wake up from this nightmare?
Ever since I saw the movie The Graduate, the image of Dustin Hoffman rocketing up and down the California coast in pursuit of his True Love in his 1967 Alfa Romeo convertible became my quest. All I needed was the means…
And then along came Wonderbug. In 1976, I had landed a television series: essentially The Mod Squad for kids — with the added bonus of a magical dune buggy named Wonderbug. So, it was only fitting that a magic car enabled me to get my own magic car.
And it was truly a thing of beauty. Fully restored…from its sleek, red body to its immaculate aluminum engine. I bathed, and polished, and waxed it past the point of obsession. Every imperfection — even a squashed gnat on the windshield — was immediately remedied.
I hadn’t had my Alfa for more than a few precious months. Early on Sunday mornings, I’d test her limits on the empty roads in the hills outside of Los Angeles. She drove like a dream: smooth, nimble, and spry.
One curve in particular begged to be challenged. I mean, it simply needed to be conquered. And Alfa and I were not to be denied. I wondered, how fast could my baby take this curve? Determined to find out, I began to experiment, gradually increasing the speed with each trial. Pushing and pushing the limits. How fast could I take this curve? One fateful morning, I found out. I hit the limit. And the wall.
I had once fantasized about zooming up the Pacific Coast Highway in pursuit of my True Love. Instead, I ended up demolishing my True Love on a barren hill. With no one to blame, but myself.
How close can you clip your fingernails? Is the paint dry enough for you to touch? How deep can you dig before you hit the sprinkler line? Do you give the screw just one more twist? Should you toast the bagel just little bit longer? Should you give your lips just one more collagen injection? Is it safe to have just one more drink? Should you give your partner just a little more “honest feedback” about their appearance? Should you try just a little bit harder to seduce your date?
In short, how do you know when you’ve gone too far? The answer, unfortunately, is when you’ve gone too far.
Sure, it’s challenging — and sometimes even fun — to push the limits. But at what cost? Are you willing to pay the price of your risk/reward miscalculation? You can always toast another slice of burned bread or mend a broken sprinkler line. Not the same for totaling your car. Or violating someone else’s trust. Or jeopardizing your life. We test the limits at our own peril.
Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.
Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».
Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив
